


tell me how love should feel

by dottrashbin



Category: League of Legends
Genre: F/F, Muteness, how is this the first one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 13:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8287469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dottrashbin/pseuds/dottrashbin
Summary: This isn’t love, she had once thought.Maybe it is.





	

**Author's Note:**

> okay this might come across as smut but it isn't

Sarah Fortune, in her many travels, only sought out pleasure for when the need had risen. It wasn’t often, and had become even rarer in the times when the bounty to be caught was plenty.

The sea is her mistress—the one she always seemed to go back to.

 

This isn’t love. That much, Sarah knows.

As the maven, with her nimble fingers glide against her shoulders to remove her coat and slide against the front of her corset, she is sure of it.

She groans and they’ve done this enough times for her to be accustomed to the silence.

(Whenever morning comes, she hears rather than sees first that Sona has already woken; the melody of the strings resonating so deeply that her body knows not to go back to slumber or lay still, awake, taking in the instrument’s tune.

She does not dwell on how the morning light looks ethereal on the maven, nor the reflection the instrument casts against her skin; she is aglow, at peace.

The woman continues playing but eyes her carefully. After a moment she plucks a string and the redhead shivers.

Sona gives her a playful smile, and she returns it.)

 

The first time they do so, Sarah is fumbling against _so much fucking_ _fabric_. The sheer amount of it is enough to catch her off guard, and Sona (or at least she thinks so, with the way she covers her mouth and eyes crinkle) laughs at the way she raises her hands in defeat.

Pale fingers remove the dress, and she takes note of how it twists against her form. The sight is almost enough to fully distract Fortune from noting how to remove the dress in the first place. (Almost.)

It isn’t perfect, and the only true guide for how Sona feels is the way she nods, or closes her eyes and purses her lips, breathing heavily and trails encouraging fingers against her forearm.

The telltale signs of the maven’s release is when her body jerks, hands tangling in her auburn hair and Sarah sighs against her neck, fingers working until she knows the other person has gone down from the high.

Sarah doesn’t expect the way she is pushed down to the bed, and she certainly doesn’t expect the oncoming onslaught of the maven. With all her playing, she should have expected the dexterity of her fingers, working tirelessly, again and _again_ —

She sees stars and breathes out reverence until she shakes her head and almost blacks out from the exhaustion.

Turning on her side and letting her face be cushioned by the pillow that ended up misplaced on the bed, she sighs contentedly, stroking blue hair. Faintly, it reminds her of the sea. (She isn’t entirely sure how it makes her feel, whenever the water ebbs and flows and she remembers blue against white, pristine sheets.)

 

Whenever morning comes and she wakes, the maven is still there. In a myriad of ways, she is unlike any other of her bedmates. There isn’t truly a list of bedside manners that Sarah keeps in her mind (and heaven knows that if Sona were to lack any, it would have been completely compensated by how well she was in bed).

She is unique in how she stays until morning, playing a tune that Sarah can never quite put her finger on, but it puts her at ease nevertheless.

Sarah isn’t sure when anything changed. She isn’t sure when she started humming along the melody, or when she began talking to the maven about her travels, regaling her usual favorites, or even bits and pieces of her childhood,

Sona never pushed. She was always silent, but her silence wasn't indifference. Sarah, by now, knows well how to read people, and she has been in company of people who were quiet and were there, but could give less of a damn of how she really felt. (And it feels good, releasing what’s in her mind; something that just recently she was reminded of in the past, an achievement she wishes to share, or stories and news from political treaties she picked up from her usual sources that, well, she never really cared for but still told because she _could_.)

Sometimes, when the maven plays a somber tune, she listens and eyes the strings; looks for melancholy in the other woman’s eyes. She does, and by now she has set up a routine to wear a robe for when she isn’t yet decent and sits closer to the maven. Not close enough to hinder the space for her arms in which they play, but close enough to give comfort.

She can only hope to give the same assurance that is given to her, and she usually ends up kissing her fingertips, to her palm, to her wrist, bedding her with the softest of touches and voicing of praise.

A gasp and a breath, followed by a drawn out sigh. She is rewarded by a smile, and these are the times that Sarah enjoys the most.

 

Always, the maven is first to rise out of bed. However, she isn’t necessarily always the first to truly wake up.

Blearily, the bounty hunter’s eyes open and she pushes her hair away, seeing the contentment across the maven’s face, She looks down at the hand laced with hers and of course, even in her sleep, the maven’s fingers continue to tap softly against her palm.

The sight is enough to make something prickle across her chest, and she breathes out to let the tightening ease. The maven shuffles and Sarah closes her eyes.

The routine starts again.

 

When she sleeps with another, she feels lost.

 

The next time she meets with the maven, red suddenly stains her trousers and she curses loudly and repeatedly for the timing of it all. Sona doesn’t know whether or not to laugh or cringe from the filth releasing from her mouth, but she sets a soothing palm on her back.

When she comes back to the room after changing into her night clothes, the maven is still there, playing a favorite of hers.

The maven stays for the night, and Sarah isn’t entirely sure how to feel.

 

This isn’t love, she had once thought.

Maybe it is.

 

 

 


End file.
